


The Different Losses of Harry Hart

by MHMoony



Series: Lost & Found [1]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Harry-centric, M/M, Post-Kingsman: The Golden Circle, Pre-TSS, feat. Baby Harry, merlahad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 13:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12234036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MHMoony/pseuds/MHMoony
Summary: For Harry Hart, loss has many different meanings at various stages in his life.





	The Different Losses of Harry Hart

**Author's Note:**

> Updated with fixed spelling/grammar etc. Don’t post fics in the middle of the night, kids.

At age 6, loss is a tooth.

Harry Hart is sitting at his tiny desk in class drawing pictures of butterflies while playing with his loose front tooth, pushing it back and forth with his tongue. Mummy told him that it would come out on its own, but it was far too interesting and exciting to ignore. His very own real tooth was going to fall out of his mouth, and according to legend, he was actually going to receive money in return! Antony Wallis lost his first tooth in class just last month and boasted on the playground the next day how there was _five whole pence_ beneath his pillow when he woke. All the other children treated him as though he were the class hero for the whole week.

Yes, Harry was impatient and more than ready for his first baby tooth to come out already. Perhaps the tooth fairy would even give him ten pence instead of five for being so proactive. His manners were also most definitely better than that of Antony Wallis’s (butterflies are most certainly _not_ sissy, thank you very much), and that had to count for something, right? So he continued wiggling his tooth in hopes of expediting its falling out process. It was _his_ tooth, after all, so shouldn’t he have a say about when it came out?

Suddenly, Harry felt something fall onto his tongue. His eyes widened in surprise. Could this be the moment? He held his breath so as not to swallow whatever it was, opened his mouth, and picked up the small, solid thing that was lying there.

It was his tooth. Finally.

Harry raised his hand and, after his teacher came over and bent down to ask what he needed, he proudly announced that he lost his tooth, a smug smile showing off the new gap in his grin.

The next day, Harry awoke to ten pence underneath his pillow.

Take that, Antony Wallis.

\--

At age 16, loss is a father.

Harry Hart’s father did not die when he turned 16, but Malcolm Frederick Hart III made it very clear to Harry that, as long as he continued to indulge himself in these _sinful_ , _vile_ , and _unnatural_ thoughts, he was to be no son of his.

So Harry played the role of the dutiful son, saying “yes, sir” and “no, sir” when appropriate, and never again speaking of his confusing and conflicting feelings towards those of the same gender. He also came to learn to ignore the various terms of his so-called affliction that his father enjoyed to throw around such as _sodomite_ , _pervert_ , and _sexual invert_. Every time, Harry would bite his tongue to keep himself from cursing the Bible and Havlock Ellis and the entire profession of psychology for giving the man those damned words to use at his disposal.

Harry also forced himself to not take the newly published article stating that homosexuality was not a mental illness and shove it in his father’s face. It’s not like that would have changed much, anyway.

However, where he may have lost a father, Harry gained the missing love and affection from his dearest mother. She did not understand what Harry was feeling, but the love for her son outweighed whatever the church and the world wanted her to believe. She also encouraged his indulges and even sometimes joined him in his butterfly hikes where they sang whatever latest ABBA record had been released.

Trading one parent for more of the other was a bargain that Harry would gladly take.

\--

At age 18, loss is his virginity.

Harry Hart is in his first year at Cambridge. He is at his first party that his roommate dragged him to, and is standing in some flat that a couple older students rented. He did not know how his roommate found out about this party or how he was able to get them invitations, but Harry is determined to have a good time.

He drinks the beverages that are put into his hand and tries not to cough or let his eyes water too much at the amount of smoke filling the space from all of the lit cigarettes. It’s dark and loud and crowded and at some point, he lost track of his roommate. Hopefully, he’d find him before he had to travel back to their dormitory.

As he’s walking around the edge of the party trying to find at least one familiar face, he bumps into someone, knocking their drink out of their hand. Harry apologizes profusely, taking the napkin that was wrapped around his own drink and dabbing it at the other person’s now damp shirt. He also tries to ignore how firm this man’s--because the person he bumped into is very clearly a man--chest seems to be. Amidst his sputtering sorries and shaking hands continuously pressing into this stranger’s front, Harry feels a hand enclose around his wrist, ceasing him from the lost cause of cleaning up the shirt.

Harry lifts his head and is surprised to see the man is at eye level with him. Behind a pair of glasses are green-hazel eyes staring back at him. Harry feels his mouth go dry and swallows. There is a pounding in his chest and a hand still gently holding his wrist.

And then, the man smiles.

He says that it’s alright and not to worry, he was borrowing his friend’s shirt, anyway. Harry introduces himself and finds out that glasses-man is a year above him and actually lives in this flat, but it’s his roommate’s party. Harry notices him glance down at Harry’s shirt which also has a spill stain on it. He asks Harry if he wants to go into his room and borrow one of his shirts for now. Harry nods his head and allows green-hazel-eyes-man to lead him ( _still holding onto his wrist_ ) to a bedroom.

More than just their shirts are taken off and, in hindsight, Harry didn’t really know what else he should have expected. But firm-chest-confirmed-man is kind and soft and gentle (and so very _fit_ , good lord, his back must have been chiseled by Michelangelo himself), making sure that no matter what, Harry is comfortable. Harry thought he had died and gone to heaven and that actual-work-of-art-man is the beautiful angel sent to take him to meet St. Peter at the pearly gates.

It isn’t until afterwards while they’re lying side by side when lost-his-virginity-to-this-man tells Harry that his name is Hamish.

\--

At age 22, loss is his dream.

Harry Hart is freshly graduated with his degree in zoology. He’s ready to continue on in his childhood dream of becoming a lepidopterist and study butterflies and discover new species to his heart’s content. He can’t stop smiling and his grin only widens when he sees Hamish standing amongst the celebratory crowds. He turns to his parents and tells them he’s going to say hi to a friend and will meet with them later (ignoring his father’s suspicious leer and his mother’s not-so-obvious attempt at getting them to quickly leave).

Harry approaches Hamish (who had graduated the year before with his engineering degree) with a broad grin, but it softens as he sees the man’s face. Hamish congratulates him and gives him a long hug. Harry can clearly see that something is wrong, even if Hamish is trying to hide it from him. Hamish shakes his head and tells him they’ll talk about it later, that now is a time for celebration.

Later that night after his parents leave for their own home, Harry opens his flat door and lets Hamish inside. They sit in the modest one-bedroom flat’s living area, and that is when Hamish tells him that he did not get accepted into any master’s program, despite the fact that Hamish is the smartest and most clever person Harry had ever met. The man could fix broken telephones in no time at all and make them work better. He could attach wires to each other and through some sort of magic, make something on the other side of the room operate seemingly on its own. He drew schematics for inventions that could revolutionize the world if he only had the means of creating them. It made no sense at all.

Hamish then tells him that he’s joining the army instead (he couldn’t be a pilot in the RAF due his glasses, _the discriminatory bastards_ ). He has to do something with his life, and the gap year he had taken did not help in the way he thought it would. So enlisting was his only option.

He leaves in the early hours of the morning after the two friends do something they hadn’t done since the night they first met. Harry doesn’t sleep after Hamish leaves, and thinks.

Hamish needs someone to look after him. Lord knows the selfless prick would do something noble and dramatic and make himself a martyr. The sunlight is streaming through his window when Harry’s decision is made.

He blatantly ignores the astonished (then confused then enraged then thinly veiled relieved) look Hamish gives him when they see each other at basic training.

It wasn’t chasing butterflies in Martinique like his childhood dream, but, Harry found, dreams could change, especially if they involved protecting someone that mattered.

Even if that someone yelled at him until he went hoarse before pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

\--

At age 25, loss is his heart.

Harry Hart could not believe the turns his life has taken. No less than three years ago, he thought that by now, he’d be prancing around jungles in South America catching an undiscovered and very rare species of butterfly and naming it after Hamish (mostly because his friend would always complain that of all the things he imagined he wanted to be namesake of, _a blasted butterfly isn’t one of them, Harry_ ).

Now, three years after he made the life-changing decision to enlist in the army and follow his best friend, Harry and Hamish both managed to find themselves coveting almost unbelievable positions (Hamish refused to join the ranks of the tech department unless Harry came with him, as well. Between the two of them, they somehow convinced Merlin to sponsor Harry as a Galahad recruit. When paired together, the two really did make a very excellent and convincing team). It’s all straight out a movie, really, and Harry is still pinching himself.

He even got a new dog out of it, and Harry honestly does not think he could love anything in this entire world more than he loves his Mr. Pickle. He looks over at the small cairn as it sits on his bed in his room at HQ, tongue flopping out as he stares adoringly at Harry. Harry smiles at the most wonderful dog in the world before bringing his attention back to readjusting his tie. He looks at himself in the full-body mirror as he pulls at the fabric around his neck beneath the honest-to-god bespoke suit he is currently wearing.

Even his father didn’t wear bespoke suits, stating that it’s a non-essential and vainglorious luxury, and that made-to-measure is just fine for any true gentleman.

Harry thought his father could go fuck himself, but that was neither here nor there.

He hears a knock on his door and beckons for whoever it is to enter. In the mirror’s reflection, he sees Hamish walk in and close the door behind him. Harry turns around. Both of them are barely able to contain their grins as they greet each other as professionally and formally as they can in their new codenames (Galahad and Emrys, a knight and a wizard, though the latter name not as widely known. Hamish figured that they were just having a difficult time coming up with names for tech and handlers and just threw that one to him).

They’re both silent for a moment before they break out into grins and scream in joy. They meet halfway and hug and jump and go on and on about how they couldn’t believe that they made it. Kingsman. A secret service. A spy and a handler.

A few months later, they are both assigned on a mission together. A handler was needed in the field for this particular hostile extraction, and Kingsman hadn’t seen a better handler/spy duo since Q and Bond themselves, Harry swears. Everything is going swimmingly, with Emrys safely stationed away in their safehouse while he directs Galahad and Percival through a compound in a remote area in Romania where they are to find the ringleader for the Balkan human trafficking ring.

Just as Emrys is congratulating the two agents for finding the target and knocking him out, Galahad hears heavy and rapid footsteps in his earpiece along with shouting.

And then he hears a gunshot, and his heart drops.

Galahad and Percival look at each other. They quickly grab the unconscious crime lord and make their way back out of the compound. They throw him into the back of their vehicle and Percival speeds back towards their safehouse. Galahad feels his heart pounding in his ears. He had to be okay. He had to be safe. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be able to bare it. A life without Hamish wasn’t a life in which Harry wanted to live.

The realization startles him and he physically has to shake his head. Now is not the time. He is not Harry here, and they are not driving towards his best friend, Hamish. No, right now, he was Agent Galahad, and himself and Agent Percival needed to get to their tech and handler, Emrys, and aid him in whatever way he needed.

His training kicks in. He steels himself from the onslaught of emotions threatening to spill out of him. Only after the mission is complete, he reminds himself, can he then shed a tear in private. And if things went his way, there won’t be any reason for tears.

Galahad opens the car door and leaps out of it before Percival even pulls into a full stop. He races into their safehouse to see Emrys tied up and unconscious and a man holding a gun to his head.

The captor doesn’t even have time to finish a sentence before Harry fires a bullet through his skull.

After the crime lord is left for dead in front of a government building, after the extraction team brings them to the Kingsman aeroplane, after he sits next to Emrys’s still unconscious body in-flight, after their handler is brought to medical, and after himself and Percival complete their debrief with Arthur and he is finally in his own quarters at the Kingsman estate, Galahad finally goes away and all that’s left is Harry.

Harry, who mid-mission, realized he was in love with Hamish. It hits him a second time, and all of a sudden, he needs to see him. He nearly sprints towards medical and eagerly (but patiently) waits until someone brings him into Hamish’s room.

He is still unconscious, but has a new bandage around his ribs that Harry can see the outlines of beneath his hospital gown. He sees him, and all of a sudden, Harry wants to cry. Cry for what could have been, what almost was, and what did not happen. Cry for his revelation, and cry for the uncertainties and worst-case scenarios that could be because of it.

The more Harry thought about it, though, the more it made sense, really. Of course of all the people in the world, it makes sense that he would lose his heart to Hamish.

\--

At age 36, loss is Mr. Pickle.

Harry Hart did not know he could hurt this bad. It is now three days after Mr. Pickle’s passing and Harry could not be more thankful that his designated time off coincided with the demise of his dear, dear friend. That damned pancreatitis. Well, better death by illness than by bullet. To this day, he is still traumatised by that god forsaken test. If he had it his way, Harry would rid of the thing altogether. Surely, there must be equal if not better ways of testing a person’s trust and loyalty without making them shoot their fucking dog.

He’s sitting on the couch in his living room, glass of whisky in his hand, when he hears keys rattle against the door. Ah. Hamish. He must have gotten off work early. The door opens and Harry closes his eyes, picturing what he is sure is happening at the threshold right now.

Hamish closes the door and he’s humming that damn John Denver song again. It’s not that Harry doesn’t like it, it’s just that he knows the entire song backwards and forwards, not because of the record itself, but because Hamish sings it any and everywhere he can. He hangs his coat up on the coat hanger and slips off his shoes. Or at least tries to, because the lazy man can’t be bothered to untie his oxfords (with brogues, the monster). But he relents and bends down to properly remove them. Why he doesn’t just skip to this part, Harry has no idea. His keys are then hung up on the hook that is designated his. He sighs and stretches, probably mumbling about getting old or something of the like, and will then quietly make his way into the living room right about--

Harry greets him without opening his eyes. He feels the seat next to him dip down a bit and then warm, soft lips against his temple. He only opens his eyes when Hamish says he has a surprise for him. Hamish looks nervous, which is an emotion the man never openly shows. Curiosity takes over Harry as he sets his drink on the coffee table (on top of a coaster, obviously).

An absurd thought comes to mind as he wonders if Hamish is going to propose to him. His heartbeat quickens at the thought. But that would be impossible, they wouldn’t be able to actually get married anywhere. However, Harry would be lying to himself if he hadn’t imagined his partner writing ‘Hamish Hart’ on his documents. Or, even better, being able to make all of their towels and pyjamas and _everything_ embroidered or embossed with ‘HH’ on them. The possibilities were endless, really.

Before he can continue on in his tangent, Harry is most definitely taken by surprise as Hamish shows him Mr. Pickle. Or, at least, Mr. Pickle’s body.

Mr. Pickle’s _taxidermied_ body.

Harry’s widened eyes go back up to Hamish’s apprehensive (and still so very green hazel) ones. The man begins rambling on about why he did it and if he insulted Harry, then he was so sorry and that he’d figure something out, but Harry ignores all of this as tears begin to creep up and a soft sob escapes his lips. He pulls Hamish into a desperate embrace and cries on his shoulder, saying thank you thank you thank you _thank you_ over and over again.

Harry can feel the tension Hamish was holding release as he wraps his arms around him, too, murmuring reassurances and things of love in his ear.

That night, Harry places Mr. Pickle proudly in the downstairs bathroom (his favorite room).

Yes, he may have lost Mr. Pickle, but Hamish has made the loss that much more bearable.

\--

At age 37, loss is Lee Unwin.

Harry Hart missed it. He couldn’t believe he fucking missed it. It was right there, literally right in front of him, and he missed it.

And now, because of his mistake, a wife has become a widow and a son left without his father. He only hopes that the young boy--Eggsy--never forgets that medal. It’s not enough, but it’s at least something, some small way to repay Lee, the young man he brought to his own death.

It’s the second time in the past year when Harry is found drinking his favorite whisky on that same spot on the couch of his living room. His eyes are closed and he once again feels the seat beside him sink slightly. Except this time, a kiss isn’t placed on his head. Instead, a hand takes away his tumbler and places it on the coffee table. Harry feels warm hands wrap around his body and guide his head to rest against a broad shoulder. And finally, a familiar pair of lips brush against his forehead.

Harry feels his throat clench and takes a shuddery breath. He squeezes his eyes shut even more and Hamish’s arms wrap just a touch tighter around him. He has seen people die, of course, most of them by his own hand. He’s watched his own colleagues die. He’s toasted to them with that god awful brandy that everyone agrees tastes like shit but still drink because Arthur can’t seem to see that some traditions are fucking ridiculous and they should be rid of them. They weren’t even able to do that damned toast for Lee. In his time both in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces and Kingsman, Harry Hart has seen a lot of death.

None of them, however, has ever felt as painful or guilt-ridden as that of Lee Unwin.

The man was a true Kingsman. If anything, Harry’s guidance and Hamish’s training showcased just that in the young man. He sacrificed himself for his colleagues, for his country, for Kingsman.

And he didn’t even have a title. He was a recruit, for god’s sake.

The loss of Lee Unwin is something that Harry knows he will be feeling for the rest of his life.

\--

At age 54, loss is his life.

Harry Hart thinks it’s quite impressive, really, that he’s managed to stay alive for this long a time, considering his profession. He’s escaped buildings that exploded mere moments after jumping out a ten-story window, jumped out of a hijacked aeroplane with nothing but a may-or-may-not-be damaged parachute and a prayer, and just barely dodged bullet after bullet and knife after knife. He’s actually a bit disappointed that he’s meeting his demise at the end of barrel for a standard pistol.

His anger and frustration with Eggsy by now is long gone. The true aim of his harsh words were more for himself than the young boy, anyhow. He was just unfortunate enough to be around when Harry decided to express them. Hamish--his beautiful, brilliant, tender, sarcastic, lovely Hamish--talked him down as he made his way towards HQ, and even gave him a hug and a kiss before he left. Harry promised him that he would talk to Eggsy when he got back, and Hamish even offered to be there, too, if he wanted.

Now, though, it seemed that would be most unlikely.

The life of a Kingsman is supposed to be filled with four things: adventure, respect, loneliness, and regret. The latter two are the unspoken promises of taking on the title of a modern day knight.

Harry would not consider himself lonely per se. The loneliness he felt as a Kingsman came more from the lack of the ability to relate to the common man. Since his induction as Galahad, Harry has never been able to sit at a coffee or tea shop and simply enjoy life as a civilian. He is far too aware of the mission he has just completed or the mission he is about to do, or the fact that only two days prior, he defused a bomb from detonating just two shops down. Accepting the life of a Kingsman meant accepting a life where no one else in the world would ever be able to relate to you. That in and of itself is a position that very, very few could understand, and would make any human being feel some sense of loneliness in a large world.

In terms of regret, Harry has but one.

And he feels that regret in its small, square box in the right pocket of his trousers now more than ever.

Hamish would never get his ‘HH’ labeled everything after all.

He is calmer than he thought he would be when face-to-face with death. He at least hopes that it happens qui

\--

At age 56, loss comes in threes.

The first loss is his dream. Again.

Harry Hart, lepidopterist, is as patient as ever. He still doesn’t quite know why he is in this padded cell with these strange but friendly Americans, but it doesn’t concern him too much. It must be from the head injury he had sustained whilst studying the butterfly gardens in Martinique. He can’t exactly remember being in Martinique, but he supposes that that’s due to the aforementioned head injury. And it must have been quite the injury, as well, if he has to wear this eyepatch. He doesn’t mind it, though.

Perhaps this will be his signature and a way for his colleagues to remember him when he goes to lepidoptery conferences.

It’s just after breakfast when he feels the stubble on his face. Hm. That will just not do. He moves to the sink and begins shaving, taking extra care as he looks at his reflection in the large mirror. Really, was a mirror this big that necessary in a room like this? Maybe when that kind Ginger woman brings him lunch, he can ask her about the ridiculous size of this mirror. He could even try and get her to replace with a small one so he could have more room to draw his butterfly diagrams on the walls.

Just as he finishes cleaning up his razor and the sink, he hears the door open. Harry smiles and turns, ready to see Ginger or Tequila (a nickname that confuses him, but he is far too polite to question it), but instead, sees a young man in a suit and a taller, older, bald man in a field jacket. He’s confused because these two men seem to know who he is, but Harry has no clue who he is talking to.

The next few days after meeting these glasses-clad men make to be the worst days of his life. Test after test after test, torture after torture after torture. No matter what Harry tells them, they refuse to believe him when he says that this is who he is now. No gung-ho spy with radio shoes or white suits or a parade of women traipsing about his home. He is Harry Hart, lepidopterist, and he so desperately wants to go home. Probably visit his mother, too, while he’s at it.

This Merlin fellow, though, seems to be remorseful of all the trials he put him through. Quite the gentleman, too, buying him a cuppa and offering him his jacket when he got cold. He also notices that Merlin’s eyes--a lovely green-hazel color--tend to soften whenever he looks at him, but Harry shakes that thought off.

Just because someone is nice does not mean that they like you.

So he shakes his hand and promises to name a butterfly species after him. There’s something whimsical about naming a butterfly after a man named Merlin, he finds.

The next morning, Harry is delighted to see that the Eggy boy brought him a small cairn puppy as a going away present. He instantly falls in love with the pup and knows he will love him for the rest of his life. His joy is short-lived, however, when the boy goes mad, points a gun at the tiny thing and threatens to shoot him.

And all of a sudden, butterflies are swarming him, he’s having flashes of memories from long ago, and he’s shouting about the gun being _a fucking blank_ because he would never, _never_ hurt Mr. Pickle, _he lived to the ripe age of eleven and died of pancreatitis and_ \--he looks down at the puppy in his arms.

This is most definitely not Mr. Pickle.

Ah. There it is.

Harry Hart is not a lepidopterist. He is Agent Galahad, a Kingsman, a gentleman. Eggsy welcomes him back with a hug and reassures him that the Valentine crisis is over, and he has in fact woken up to an entirely new End of the World Villain. He’s glad to be back.

Although, it was a bit nice to truly believe he had fulfilled his first dream of studying butterflies, even if only for a brief while.

The second loss is Hamish.

He can’t breathe. He didn’t remember. He didn’t remember Hamish, or that his favourite singer is John Denver, or that he had spent the entirety of his adult life with this man by his side. This ridiculous, gorgeous man of his that is currently belting out bloody John Denver whilst standing on top of a landmine. Harry always knew that Hamish would do something like this. Something noble and dramatic, making himself a martyr. He joined the army so Hamish wouldn’t be able to do something _exactly like this_.

And here they were, thirty-something years later, Harry unable to prevent it from happening.

If only he had remembered sooner. Why did it take him singing _John bloody Denver_ in order to jog the last bit of Harry’s memory, to make the last of the floating butterflies go away? He was supposed to watch out for Hamish because he knew that if he didn’t, Hamish would do something stupid.

 _Like belt John Denver whilst standing on top of a fucking landmine_.

And he saluted. He fucking saluted him, his best friend since he was 18, the man he lost his virginity to, the man who remained his partner, lover, everything _literally_ until the day he died. The man he loved more than anyone else in the world sacrifices himself, and he saluted him.

And what’s worse is that Hamish is going to die without knowing that he remembered.

He hits his last note, the mine goes off, and Harry forces his training to kick in. The mission comes first, as always.

Harry Hart may have lost the love of his life, but Galahad did not.

The third loss is his name.

After Eggsy overdosed Poppy, after they shoved Agent Whiskey through a meatgrinder, after they released the antidote all over the world, and, Harry is still shaken by this image, after Hamish drags his broken body through the diner’s doggy door and admonishes them to stop crying and they are finally back at Statesman HQ, Harry finally relaxes.

Eggsy and Ginger are standing between himself and Hamish (sitting in his wheelchair to let his thighs rest after testing out his new prosthetics) when Champ asks if either of them would like to take the position as their new Agent Whiskey. While being called Whiskey is far more preferable than being called Galahad _Senior_ , Harry knows that his heart belongs to Kingsman.

Which is why he is thankful (and a bit surprised and incredibly impressed) when Ginger, as she said, threw her hat in the ring. So she is now Agent Whiskey (they really should get rid of that ‘e’), and there are still two Galahads, and, thank every deity that has ever been prayed upon, there is still Merlin.

The three remaining Kingsman are in a medical room. Hamish is trying on what is hopefully the last and final version of his prosthetics. Harry knew that he and Ginger--Whiskey, lord that was going to take time to get used to--had spent time a lot together coming up with designs for Hamish’s new legs. And no, Harry was most certainly _not_ jealous, _Eggsy_. Just like he wasn’t jealous of Antony Wallis and his five pence tooth.

He also still hasn’t told Hamish that he remembers, but that was neither here nor there.

Ginger--Whiskey--comes in with the new and quite advanced looking prosthetics. Much more aesthetically pleasing than the arm that Charlie had. Hamish tries them on. He stumbles a bit with his first steps and reaches out to steady him, but Gin-- _Whiskey_ \--makes it to him first. Harry does not narrow his eyes at her, no matter what Eggsy says. The prosthetics are perfect and Hamish keeps them on. Eggsy follows Whiskey out. He keeps on asking her about the possibility of making himself a prosthetic arm like that, and she keeps reminding him that he doesn’t need it.

__

And now he is finally alone with Hamish. His Hamish.

__

They are quiet, and when Hamish turns his head towards him, Harry sees the longing in the man’s eyes that is quickly masked away. He stands up and walks towards him. Hamish’s brows furrow in confusion and curiosity, but Harry continues on until he is standing directly in front of him in between his legs. He takes Hamish’s glasses off of his head and wipes them clean with his handkerchief before placing them on a small tray next to the bed. He then pulls the man into a tight and desperate embrace, cradling his head to his chest, and cries, saying sorry over and over again, that he remembers, that he loves him, and that he can’t believe he would do something as theatrical as literally sing a swan song.

__

Hamish, after a moment of shock, wraps his arms around Harry in the same manner, responding to every one of his statements with his own, that lord, had he missed him so much, that he even adopted a puppy to keep him company and relieve him of the pain of watching him die (a white retriever-samoyed mix named Lyra who, ironically, was missing her front left leg), and that he was just so fucking happy and grateful that Harry was even alive.

__

It happens while they’re on their way back home to the United Kingdom (once again thanks to the Statesmen allowing them to borrow another aeroplane). Eggsy is asleep in one of the seats in the cabin, and Harry takes the moment to enter the cockpit and take the seat next to Hamish. Hamish is finishing putting the aircraft into autopilot, and relaxes against his chair and closes his eyes after he presses the final button. He reaches out for Harry’s hand which Harry takes immediately.

__

Harry is drawing lazy patterns on top of Hamish’s hand with his finger before bringing it up to his lips and placing a soft kiss. He sees the other man smile and open his eyes. They don’t need to say anything, but Harry speaks up anyway. He tells him he loves him, and Hamish says it back.

__

Harry is not a man who believes in fate, but the fact that they both watched each other die and come back to life makes him take a step back and think quite possibly that himself and Hamish are meant to be together.

__

It’s in that moment that he pulls the small box out of his pocket (god bless Whiskey for holding onto that for him) and opens it, revealing a simple gold band with a butterfly etched on the inside. Hamish’s eyes go wide as he looks from the ring to Harry.

__

Harry asks, and Hamish tells him of course, you daft bastard.

__

And while Hamish never does get to write Hamish Hart on his non-Kingsman documents, Harry does get to write Harry Campbell on his.

__

Eggsy asks him later if he’s going to miss having his last name as Hart. Harry thinks it over, then smiles and shakes his head. He can lose his name, his eye, his old codename (Arthur would take some time to get used to), his old home (rest in peace once again, Mr. Pickle) as long as he never again loses Hamish.

__

Harry also admits that being able to wear the Campbell tartan and use it on almost every surface he and Hamish owns is something that he gladly takes in place of Hart.

__

Especially if that means Lyra and Hamish II (Harry named him during the two minutes he was _grieving and it stuck, Hamish, so get over it_ ) get to have their own Campbell tartan bespoke suits as well.

__

**Author's Note:**

> I went through a crash course of the British monetary system for this fic, and did not have it in me to fully and truly take into account inflation costs for currency prior to Decimal Day, so please forgive me if the five pence/ten pence is too much/too little for a parent to give a child in 1966.
> 
> I'm an American millennial who honestly had the most difficult time trying to understand the pound sterling system.
> 
> Also, the idea for Harry being obsessed with monogrammed everything comes from [this post here.](http://deepdarkwaters.tumblr.com/post/164963324166/hamish-hart-omg-harry-buying-everything-embossed)


End file.
